


Wake Up, Wake Up, It's Your Birthday!

by 1stly_fannish_writing_dispensary



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:12:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1stly_fannish_writing_dispensary/pseuds/1stly_fannish_writing_dispensary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the title implies, this is ultra-fluff, and it has happiness all throughout. It will, I hope, leave you with a need to hug my poor baby Ward. For those of you who have not read the previous works I've written with interactions between Ward and his new team, all of whom are my own creations because no one else will help Ward (who is as I said my poor baby) heal, their functions will be as nicely done as I can manage. If I fail, tell me in the comments section! xoxo</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake Up, Wake Up, It's Your Birthday!

Light came in and landed on Ward; stretched out on his couch, made up with fresh sheets and a white comforter that Carl had given to Mendez, since there was a better chance of Ward using it if Mendez argued with him. It was pulled up to the back of Ward's neck, and on the sides of his face dark fuzzy scruff grew up and looked tousled, as though Ward had slept fitfully. Now his body was lax, heavy with sleep, one of his hands draped over the arm of the couch. He shifted and the comforter was pulled down a few inches to reveal bare skin, except where a few bandages were. Mendez stepped in quietly and held the door open for Sayers and Carl to come in, Carl with books, and Sayers with a cake. Another Carl came in with plates, napkins, cups, and plastic forks and spoons; then a third came in with a pint of ice cream. Sayers took a packet of candles out of her pocket, popped open the top and tapped a few out like they were cigarettes. 

Ward woke up when Mendez took out a box of matches and struck one, holding the flame to the wick before moving on to the next, the flame crawling up the matchstick and closer to his fingers. He tried to grab his gun from under his pillow and quickly realized two, no three, problems: first, he couldn't grip the gun with his free hand because it was asleep from being at the same angle for so long; second, even if he could have gripped the gun it wouldn't have been loaded thanks to Mendez's protective tendencies; and third, the medicine Mendez had given him in case he had trouble sleeping really did its job well, so his focus was shot. So now he was half-naked, turned away from his opponents, groggy, and grumpy. Also thirsty. And one leg was probably numb. 

When he looked over his shoulder, saw the cake, he wanted to get up and run. But his leg was numb, his side still hurt, there was the aforesaid factor of medicine, and he was warm. Mendez came around the table and helped Ward sit up, plumping the pillows so Ward's back had support. Carl threw him a shirt and Mendez started to help him put it on but Ward shooed him off, pulling it over his head with one hand. 

"Happy birthday to you..." Sayers sang slowly, "happy birthday TO you."

Mendez and Carl joined in as the candle-flames danced on their wicks. "Happy BIRTH-day dear," Mendez said "boss" and Carl said "Ward", "Happy birthday to you."

Carl said, "Blow the candles out!"

There was a moment where Ward sat on his couch/bed and Sayers, Mendez and Carl stood over him, waiting. 

"Ice cream's melting," Sayers pointed out.

"I forgot bowls," Carl said. One of his selves went to get some. 

Ward stared at the candles in the time it took for the other Carl to come back with small bowls that looked like they were from an IKEA set, bright colors and a cutesy, stylishly poor vibe. Mendez pulled up some chairs and they sat around the table. "Come on, little brother, blow 'em out."

"You can make a wish," Carl reminded him.

"Or not," Sayers said. "Your choice."

"I...can't pay you anything." Ward looked away from the cake, at them. "You do know this."

"Yeah. Blow the candles out." Mendez pushed Sayers's chair back onto all four legs when she started tipping back due to boredom. "Before the wax gets into the cake."

The couch was old and creaked when he leaned forward, over the cake, and blew each candle out. One by one. They didn't know how old he was so Sayers had settled for Happy Bday, in all caps, different sparkly colors. Eight letters. When the last flame had been blown out, Sayers picked up the cake cutter and Carl removed the candles, setting them on a saucer he'd also brought along. The air smelled burnt; each slice of cake quivered when Sayers dished it out. "I made this," she said proudly.

"From a box," Carl said.

"Shut up, I made it. Try some." 

Bright speckles of color stood out in the yellowish-white cake, lines of white frosting holding the two layers together. Ward poked a bit away from the rest of the piece, got it by itself, and held it on the end of his plastic fork. Studying it. Then he put it in his mouth, tasted, chewed, swallowed. "Good," he said. "I think."

They gave him ice cream and cake. The books were his presents.

The day was for him. At that time it was one of the hardest concepts for him to master, that people have the ability to do kind things for other people because they care for a person or group, without motive or expectation of "returning the favor". There was no debt. Yes, it was hard then. But over time, it grew easy. And familiar.

He almost looked forward to his birthdays after that.


End file.
